Noir (21 page)

All at once I’m flying. On a bat-winged bike. There’s a bottle of steam.

The boy’s there again.

He kisses me.

We’re running in the woods. I fall. He’s there.

We’re in a room with a bed.

We open a door. There’s a machine. Sparks fly.

I lose sight of him . . .

I’m devastated.

I’m devastated . . .
I shake my head. Why am I devastated?

I turn and gaze into the stranger’s eyes—and then it comes to me.

His words surface in my head, as if being resurrected from the bottom of a deep, deep sea: “Then
I
will remember
you
and never stop insisting that you remember me, until I’ve drawn my last breath . . .”

“Urlick!” I say. My eyes spring open. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

“Yes!” He falls on my mouth in the heaviest kiss, and every nerve in my body shouts. I feel everything in that moment, every sense, every touch, every smell . . . every second we’ve ever spent together rushes over me, wrapping me up in a warm, sparkling breeze.

“How is she?” Another breathless boy appears above us. Half the buttons on his shirt are missing. His bronze skin is wet with sweat. He has no sleeves, just a vest and a shiny bald head. In his eyes I see elephants.

A beautiful brass elephant . . .

“She’s here, she knows me,” Urlick says with a smile. “How are the others?”

“I’m not so sure.” The boy casts a weary gaze over his shoulder. “See for yourself.”

Urlick swings around and I look to see . . .
“Livinea?”
She’s tangled up in a shameless embrace, straddling C.L.’s middle. She has him pinned to the ground, her mouth pressed over his.

“I’ve only just met ’im.” She comes up for air. “But I likes ’im already.”

Part Three

Th
irty-Eight

Flossie

I lower my arms and the Infirmed bow to me, bent in the middle, hands outstretched.

I
can
get used to this.

A noise in the woods, moments later, has them perched on their haunches and sniffing the air like blood-thirsting wolves catching a scent. They rise into the mist, mingling bodies, chattering and shouting and screaming. Drool drains from their torn lips.

“Shhhhh,” I hiss at them. “Silence!” I raise a hand, and they descend to the earth again. “Keep your hungry mouths shut and your howling to yourselves!”

They cower under the weight of my voice and float in silence—hundreds of wild-eyed, ghoulish dogs, awaiting my command.

“Stay here,” I instruct them, jutting myself forward, floating out past their husk-like bodies to the edge of the clearing, following the noise. My heart is aflutter with the thought that it might be Urlick returning. Perhaps he recognized my face as the Brigsman hauled him away, and he’s come back to save me. I press my hands together . . .

I blink into the clearing through the trees. No such luck—just some old
biddy
in a too-tight dress with buggy eyes and bottle-bottom glasses. She’s arrived in a coach with a couple of warty-looking Brigsmen at her sides.

Like they can protect her from the likes of me. I fold my arms and watch them. People are so silly.

“I want you to search every inch of this forest. Do you understand me?” she shouts through the visor of her gas mask.

The Brigsmen cower and lower their heads. “Yes, mum,” the closest one says.

“And don’t come back until you can hand them over!” She turns and stalks away.

“But we’ve already searched every inch of these woods,” one Brigsman calls after her. Big mistake.

“Then search them again!”
The woman darts up in his face.

The Brigsman jerks back, and I laugh.
A woman after my own heart.

I fold my arms, entertained by their escapades, wondering what it is she has them out here searching for. What could be so important they’d risk the Vapours? Why would a woman of her stature travel these dangerous woods?

“I can’t believe my sister, letting her escape like that.” The woman mutters, pacing, slapping the dust from her skirts. “Did she think, when I sent her a prisoner, it was a joke? I specifically told her to
destroy
that girl, not to see her set free again!” She turns. “See, Father? I was right.” She wrings her gloves, looking at the sky. “Parthena
is
the one who’s thick in the head
.
She never deserved that appointment anyway. The Academy is better off without her.” She flits a hand and grins. “As am I.”

“What’s that, ma’am?”

“Was I
talking
to
you
?” She snaps on the Brigsman like an assaulted twig.

“No, ma’am, I just—” he stammers and shifts away, digging again in the dirt.

“I didn’t think so,” the woman snorts, tossing him a levelling look.

She turns and stomps away in the opposite direction, toward the burned-out heap that used to be the Core. Picking up a stick, she pokes at the ashes, muttering on again. “There probably wasn’t even any truth to what the girl said. My sister’s patients will say anything on the pins.” She cups a hand to her eyes and stares up through the cloud cover. “Though it would be amazing.” She squints. “Limpidious, my arse.” She drops her hand. “There’s nothing out here but Vapourous cloud. No secret entrance to an alternate world. No stairway to Heaven through the clouds. My sister’s likely just been tipping back absinthe again. And I was stupid enough to believe her.”

She circles the remnants of the building and heads back to her carriage, her shoes crunching over glass. “Oh, and one more thing.” She turns back to the Brigsmen, the venomous snake now a dripping comb of honey. “There’s an extra five hundred jewelets in it for any one of you
imbeciles
who can come back with the girl
and
the vial.”

“The vial,”
I whisper to myself.
My eyes narrow. So that’s what she has them looking for.

“And if you see any strange light transpiring up in the clouds”—she points over her head, her eyes shooting skyward—“I want to hear about that, too.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The Brigsman gulps, looks up, a fearful twist in his smile. “You’re sure the vial is out ’ere somewhere?”

“As sure as you breathe air,” the woman snaps, her eyes reducing to slits. “I have it on good authority that the vial I seek was dropped in his struggle with Smrt the day you lugheads arrested him. Our little scar-faced prisoner’s cellmate overheard him, in his post-pummeled state, pining over the loss of it. Apparently, he was going on about having lost the miracle cure for the miracle machine. How devastating for him.” She slaps her hand with her glove
“I want that vial.”
She lashes out, hauling the Brigsman in by the scruff. “
And
the girl. Before her inkstain-faced lover catches up with her! Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The Brigsman trembles. She shoves him away.

“Very well, then.” She dusts off her hands and waddles toward her awaiting carriage, heels crushing leaves into paste beneath her weight.

I mistakenly stir, and the woman’s head wrenches around. “Do you hear something?” Her eyes flash in my direction, behind their magnified lenses.

“Hear what, ma’am?” her dolt of a Brigsman answers.

“I thought I heard a noise out in the forest.” The woman trembles, the hem of her oversized dress jiggling in the dirt.

“No, ma’am. I didn’t ’ear nothing. Did yuh?” He turns to the other Brigsman.

“Can’t say I did.”

“You’re sure?” She presses, scanning the forest, nostrils flaring, sniffing the air like a dog.

I slide a hand to my mouth, trying not to laugh and give myself away.

“Footman!” she squeals and bolts for the carriage, jumping aboard, springs hollering. She slams the coach door shut and the carriage is away, bobbling out onto the road.

I wait for the buggy to completely disappear, then remove the vial from its hiding place between my breasts. “What a wonderful piece of leverage I’ve stumbled upon.” I cackle, twirling it in my hand. “Even more useful than before.

I swirl around and jut back toward my tribe of worshipping dimwits, still cowering in the trees where I left them. They fall on bended knees when again they see me. “Get up!” I shout. “For goodness’ sake. We have work to do and no time to waste. I need your help to stop that carriage.”

Thirty-Nine

Eyelet

I spend the better part of the next twenty minutes convincing Livinea she agreed to come with us, we are not kidnapping her, and that, in fact, she was being held captive elsewhere, from which we saved her. But as soon as I convince her of that truth, she loses it, and the arguing starts up again. That final trip through the doors of the Brink, I fear, has destroyed her memory for good. Thankfully, I’ve regained everything. Every memory—even the unpleasant ones.

C.L. had a few blank moments that scared us all, during which time Urlick filled us in on C.L.’s past—his brief stay in the Brink, the damage that was done to him—I can’t believe the life that poor man has led. Then C.L. snapped back into himself and accused Urlick of personal treason for sharing his secrets. He’s still bitter, but slowly getting over it. “Where are we going?” He purses his lips and scowls up at Urlick. We’ve been driving for almost an hour now.

“To the bog,” Urlick says from the driver’s mount inside the elephant. The rest of us follow in the train.

“Masheck, you all right back there?” Masheck tips the ringmaster’s hat. He’s driving the train, same arrangement as before.

“Why the bog?” C.L. asks. He looks confused, as if he doesn’t remember what it is.

“Because you know as well as I do that’s the only place the Brigsmen are too afraid to go.”

“Shouldn’t we be heading for the border?”

“In the dark of night?”

“It won’t be much better in the day.” C.L. is bordering on belligerent now, his upset with Urlick affecting his judgment. Livinea moves in, petting his shoulder.

“We need time to regroup,” Urlick says firmly. “And think of a plan. We won’t be getting out of this mess without a crafty one. You know yourself we’ll never get this caravan back across that checkpoint without being discovered.”

C.L. hangs his head. “But what other way is there, sir?”

“I don’t know. But we’ll have to think of something.”

“I know where there’s a hole in the dancing fence line, between Brethren and Gears,” I offer. “It’ll at least get us that far.”

“Big enough to drive the elephant and the freak train through?”

“No,” I sigh. “We’d have to abandon them and go on foot.”

“Then what? ’Ow would we get ’ome from there?” C.L. lifts his head. He looks worried. A spike of anxiety rises up in me, too.

“We’ll find a way,” Urlick says, staring off into the nothingness ahead of us. I can tell he has no idea.

“Do you think that’s wise?” I hover over Urlick as he lights a small campfire alongside of the bog. The stench is enough to knock you down. We’ve purposely parked as close as possible to stay out of the reach of the Brigsmen, but C.L.’s right, the bog smells like the spray of a billion skunks.

“Do you fancy freezing to death?” Urlick scowls, rolling two sticks.

“No. It’s just that—” The campfire lights. I lift a hand to my nose to block out the stench, and Urlick takes offense. He thinks it’s because of the smoke.

“Is this going to be like that other day with the tire in the woods?”

“No.”

“Then!”
He jerks his head to one side and presses me with his eyes to move on. I kick a stone and don’t. “I’ve arranged the logs so the east wind carries the smoke out into the forest, away from the city. Have you any better idea?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Good,” he snaps.

“Might I suggest somethin’?” C.L. steps between us, a swaggering look to his eyes. In his hands he holds an odd-looking set of mechanized fireplace bellows.”

Urlick’s face relaxes. “Brilliant!” he says, accepting them. “You really did think to bring everything, didn’t you?”

“I tried, sir.” C.L. puffs out his chest.

Men. They are so silly sometimes.

Urlick sets the strange apparatus up on its handles next to the campfire, in the dirt, revealing a secret compartment in the handle, and snaps together a crank. Out of another compartment he pulls the makings of a stand and assembles it, steadying the bellows inside it.

“What is that thing?” I finally ask. I can’t stand their smug silence any longer.

“A smoke-sucker,” Urlick says. “I designed it in case of emergency, should I ever get stopped in the woods. It draws in the smoke to hide your whereabouts.”

“Clever. You’re always thinking, aren’t you?” I smile.

“If you’re not, you’re dead.” Urlick tips his brows at me playfully. He attaches the handle and gives it a crank. It fails. He ditches his overcoat and tears open the seam, retrieving a quick-assembly lug-nut wrench from inside the hem.

“Are you always packing?” I say.

“Usually.” He grins. He assembles the wrench and tries the apparatus again. Nothing.

It’s clear to me the lug nut is on upside down, but clearly Urlick doesn’t see it. Do I risk all by letting him know? He sighs, adjusts the nut, and tries again. I think not. I take a seat on a log behind him and try to ignore what’s happening. But can’t.

“Here, let me.” I finally jump to my feet, reaching across him. My arm brushes his arm, and the hairs on my arm stand. I set to work jimmying off the lug nut, careful not to strip the threads, trying desperately to ignore the growing chemistry between us.

The heat is debilitating.

“There,” I say eventually, rethreading the lug nut after three missed tries, and return the wrench to his hand, letting my fingers linger there a little too leisurely. “Thanks,” he says. He folds his fingers over mine.

His steamy pink eyes weaken my knees, and in the worst way, faced with danger or not, I want to stop everything and kiss him.

The wind shifts. Smoke charges up between us and we’re divided, coughing and sputtering, waving it away. Urlick props up the bellows in their stand and wrenches the crank around. When he lets go, the accordion-sleeved apparatus pumps
in, out, in, out
, lapping up the campfire emissions, keeping our identity hidden within it. I can’t help but smile at Urlick’s achievements. He has quite the superior mind.

We settle in, all of us, on rocks and logs around the edge of the campfire. A well-deserved break from a heart-pounding day. I plop down in front of Urlick and nestle back against his chest, delighting in the strength of his arms as I wrap them around me.

“What are we going to do about her?” I say. I look across the campfire at a babbling Livinea, still questioning who we are and why she’s here. “She doesn’t even seem to remember me.”

Urlick reins me in closer, his heart beating at my back through his clothes, strumming sweetly against my spine. “Does it matter?” he says.

I scowl up at him.

“I mean, seriously, does it really matter if she remembers anything at all, as long as she’s happy, free of persecution in the Brink?”

He’s got a point. I never thought of it that way. What does it matter if she remembers anything? In fact, it’s probably better she doesn’t. What other option did she have? Death by pear of anguish, or life with loss of memory. Confusion with us has got to be better. I stare at her violet eyes playing in the light of the flames. She’s curled up against C.L.’s chest, stroking his rib cage like the keys of a fine piano. She looks up at him and coos his name as if learning it for the first time—hoping for an invitation to snuggle even closer, knowing her. Her face is glowing—porcelain-white skin, pink lips, blushed cheeks. She looks positively enamored with C.L. He stares down at her adoringly, as well.

“I suppose you’re right,” I say to Urlick, a small laugh escaping my lips. “What more can anyone ask for in life than what’s going on over there?”

“Well . . . perhaps what’s about to go on over here.” He swoops me backward off the log into a kiss. A small, surprised shriek escapes me on the fall back, which turns to giggles after he’s finished kissing me in the crunchy leaves. He looks down from overtop of me, collects me up into his arms, and kisses me again, long and hard, threading his hot tongue through my eager lips—setting my brain and body afire. I never wanted anyone so badly.

I lean into the kiss, roll him over, and climb on top, shocking him to the point he’s lost his breath. “What’s the matter? Am I too much for you?” I sit up, laughing, feeling the answer ripening between my legs. “Oh, Mr. Babbit,” I say.

He blushes. “I—I dare say . . .” he stutters. “W—we might pick a better time . . .” He twists his head toward the googly-eyed crowd we left on the other side of the log, whom I’d momentarily forgotten about. All staring.

“Oh, yes,” I say, glancing back over my shoulder, feeling the passionate rush drain from my body. I brush the leaves from my disheveled upsweep, and I slip off of him. “We’ll continue this later.” I wink and pat him on the chest, driving forward for one more quick, take-his-breath-away kiss. Dusting my hands on my skirts as if nothing’s happened, I crawl back over the log into my previous position and cross my legs daintily.

“What?” I say.

Wanda giggles. I raise my tea to her and smile.

Just then, Masheck returns to camp, his arms stacked high with kindling for the fire, and the whole camp goes silent. “What ’ave I missed?” he says.

“Nothing,” Martin snorts and slurps his tea. The whole group starts to giggle.

Masheck’s eyes move to Urlick placing himself awkwardly back in position on the log next to me, waistcoat rumpled, his hair full of crumpled leaves, his normally white cheeks glowing a lovely shade of crimson. “Oh, that,” Masheck says with a laugh. “Everything all right, sir?”

“Tea?” Sadar breaks the tension. He rises to his feet, pot in hand, steam chugging happily from its spout.

“I’ll ’ave some,” Livinea accepts right away, holding her tin teacup high.

“What about you, Eyelet? Up for some boysenberry?”

“Boysenberry tea?” I say, making a face, thinking of how I’ve used that word many a time in my mind to describe the colour of Urlick’s lips. There’s a tea to match?

“Yes. It’s a forest specialty,” Sadar says.

My mouth falls open.

“We drank it all the time on the freak train,” Sadar adds.

I hold out a cup, and Sadar slowly fills it. The brew circles in.

“Whatchu think?” C.L. asks after I’ve taken a sip.

“I think . . .” I hesitate, sloshing a second swallow around in my mouth before answering. “If one were to drink the colour purple, this would be it.”

The campfire crew laughs.

“Not that that’s a bad thing,” I quickly add and flick my brows at Urlick. He laughs even harder, as if he knows my secret use of the word, his purple cheek turning raspberry, his white one still blushing hot pink.

“Let’s move on to a plan, shall we?” Urlick stammers, tugging at his waistcoat points, trying to look authoritative with crushed leaves in his hair. “First of all, we need to get through this evening. I say we all take a turn on watch duty. Everyone agree?”

Heads nod.

“Eyelet and I will cover first . . . Watch, that is.” He stumbles over the sentence and everyone snickers. “Masheck, will you take second watch?” He nods. “C.L., you’re up after that.”

“Will do,” C.L. agrees, still snuggling close with Livinea.

“I suggest anyone who’s not on watch try to get some sleep in the train cars. That way we’ll be able to get away quickly, should anything happen.”

“Good idea,” Sadar agrees, scurrying along after Martin. “I’d love some rest.”

“C.L., I trust we can count on you to look after Miss Livinea?”

Livinea grins at the sound of her name.

“Absolutely, sir.” C.L. stands.

Martin opens his mouth as if to object, and Urlick says, “Martin, can I trust you to watch over the rest of them?”

“Certainly, sir.” His sour face brightens. He clicks his heels, salutes, and marches away.

One by one, the freaks trade the comfort of the fire for a bunk in the train. Only Iris hangs back. She rolls her fingers inside her palms, frowning. Cordelia stands glued to her skirt, pouting.

“Go on.” Urlick nudges Iris with a look, as if urging her just to cooperate.
Please?
He mouths. “It’ll be all right. I promise,” Urlick assures them. “We will never be separated again. Now go on, do as you’re told, please.”

Iris bites her lip, then turns her back slowly, pressing Cordelia hard against her leg as they walk away.

An unsettling cloud of worry settles over me. My bones shake under my skin.

I lean back against Urlick’s chest, looking for comfort.

“What is it?” He looks down on me.

“It’s just that—” I start, then stop myself. The stench of the bog shudders through me, reminding me of the Vapours in the forest. “I’d be better with your arms around me,” I say instead of what I’m thinking:
I wonder if we should be letting them that far out of our sight.

Urlick drops more wood on the fire, then settles down in the leaves, back up against the log, and pulls me to him. Sparks hiss and spray from the flames before getting inhaled by the smoke-swallowing bellows. He wraps me up tight in his arms, then adds a blanket overtop. “Everything is going to be fine,” he says.

The fire crackles over the backdrop of creaking iron train-car doors. Opening, closing, locks dropping into place over hammers, our friends settling down in their beds—then the stillness of the eerie forest.